


and then the wolves come

by kingandqueeninthenorth



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-12
Updated: 2013-06-12
Packaged: 2017-12-14 18:55:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/840236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingandqueeninthenorth/pseuds/kingandqueeninthenorth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa is his queen in everything but title.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and then the wolves come

Her name is Roslin, and they bring her to Robb shortly after he arrives home. The Freys are quick to secure their place within Winterfell, desperately grasping for some bit of respect from the people of Westeros. They are a longstanding, well known family with nothing more to show for it than too many children named Walder.

She is received by crowds of Northerners, who are suspicious at best and loathsome at worst. The Frey girl is welcomed with wary looks and hushed whispers.

Robb takes her hands and kisses them, observes all the proper courtesies and hopes that his people will warm to her. He hopes he will warm to the girl who bought him that damned bridge.

It is Sansa that makes all the difference.

She stands beside Robb looking tall and regal in the traditional Stark colors and her hair in a simple plait. It’s a far cry from the opulence she has become accustomed to in the capital, but fur fits her far better than silk ever did.

Sansa takes Roslin’s hands and whispers something in her ear that puts her at ease. The future Queen in the North even smiles.

The crowd murmurs and then a hesitant cheer rises. It’s slow and not nearly as enthusiastic as the one he received when he returned home with Sansa, but it’s more than he could’ve hoped for.

His sister waves graciously to the crowd.

 _They want Sansa_ , he realizes. _It’s Sansa they shout for._

—-

Roslin Frey is pretty enough. Her hair is dark and shiny, her eyes big and brown. She has a gap between her two front teeth, which Robb might find it endearing if he weren’t so preoccupied with the thought of another mouth.

The Frey girl gives him shy smiles and rewards his half-hearted japes with musical laughter. She is warm and happy and smiling. He should be glad that she’s full of light, and he should want to bask in it because he has known nothing but darkness for far too long. But Robb finds that he prefers the haunted eyes of a girl who has known the darkness just as well as he has.

Robb does his duty by Roslin. He tries to put a son in her, and sometimes he even attempts to feel something other than friction. But the Frey girl means nothing to him.

—-

Sansa sits to his right at his council meetings, calm and cool and self assured. She finds a solution to every problem that is brought before him with ease. His sister has a head for politics, which is possibly the only good thing to come of her stay in King’s Landing. He thanks the gods for her understanding of coins and ravens and treachery, because all of it is lost on him.

His own queen doesn’t care much for politics. She only attended a handful of meetings before she stopped coming all together.

He sees the truth in the way Sansa lifts her hands to instruct his advisors and the sound of her voice when she gives commands.

_The North has always had a queen._

—-

“I had hoped you would come to me last night,” Roslin says softly.

He looks up from his ledger and stares at her.

“It’s going to be quite difficult to give you an heir if we don’t share a bed.” Her voice is chilly and formal, but he can hear a sadness, maybe even desperation, at the edge.

She isn’t the girl who arrived at Winterfell. She was a smiling, shiny thing then, full of hope and love and an overwhelming sense of optimism. She had believed in him, even before she had seen his face. She believed that he would be her husband. A good husband.

The girl before him is different, reserved and resigned.

“Sansa-”

“Has nightmares,” his wife finishes.

“She needs me,” he says. It’s a weak excuse and he has said it a thousand times, but it’s the only answer he can give.

“I need you.”

He blinks at her, well aware that there is nothing else to say. He can’t pacify her and he knows it. He looks down at his ledger.

“I am your queen.”

His jaw tightens and his voice is thin. “I haven’t forgotten.”

“Haven’t you?”

—-

“Roslin grows restless,” Sansa remarks one day as they break their fast together. She takes her morning meal with Robb every day, but only if Roslin is still sleeping, which she usually is. She is always either asleep or pacing, only pausing in between for meals.

“I hadn’t noticed,” Robb lies.

“Robb,” she begins, and her voice is that of a queen. It forces him to meet her gaze. “She is your wife.”

“I don’t need to be reminded.”

“I think you should try,” she continues. Robb studies her, but Sansa is unreadable. Sometimes the face she puts on for her people isn’t her own, and he sees that mask now. “Her happiness is dependent on you. I think you should try…to be happy with her.”

 _I never wanted her._ “I needed that bridge.”

Sansa says nothing, and he knows she hears the truth underneath his words. _I needed that bridge to get to you._

—-

He lays in bed beside Roslin, half in and out of sleep. His queen is sated and she sleeps peacefully with her head on his shoulder.

He had put as much effort into their coupling as he could, giving Roslin the attention she so desired. He showered her with kisses and said her name in an aching voice like he was supposed to.

He runs his fingers through her hair while she sleeps, and he finds himself wishing it were auburn.

—-

There are days when the court is open to the common folk. They seek help for any number of reasons, pleading with Robb or Roslin or Sansa, and even his mother.

On the rare occasion that his wife has to wear her crown, she can hardly seem to bear the weight of it. She adjusts it when she speaks, gives it a quarter turn here and there. Roslin Frey is a delicate girl with hollow bones and paper skin, and her body seems to break under the iron circlet atop her head.

She fidgets beside Robb, unable to sit still. She is impatient and a hopeless queen. He sees her eyes wandering when the Northern people bring their problems before her. She bears no love for them, and they have none for her. A fair trade, he supposes.

Sansa sits at the table with him, alongside Catelyn. She is a delicate girl, but she sits straight and tall with all the bearings of a queen. She is nothing but easy grace and dignity. When Roslin fails to give solutions, Sansa finds her own. Robb never has to send anyone away displeased.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” one man says with a bow after Sansa grants him a team of stonemasons.

Roslin bristles at that, but doesn’t correct it. Instead, she twists her crown and fiddles with her hair. He sees her rubbing an ache from her neck and wincing as the crown slips forward on her brow.

Sansa remains still, nodding and listening to a woman’s tearful pleas.

Robb can’t help but think that the crown is better suited to Sansa.

—-

The castle smells of lemon cakes.

She has him wrapped around her little finger, and he knows how painfully obvious it is. Her happiness is of paramount importance. It is the only thing that matters. He lives for her smile. He wants nothing more than to pull her from the dark places her mind wanders to.

He longs for the days when she was afraid of the dark. In his mind, she is still that little girl who climbed into his bed and asked for him to scare the monsters away.

The Northern people are just as infatuated with her as he is. They say she is good and just and beautiful. They say she is a true she-wolf. They never speak of Roslin. It’s as if she doesn’t exist.

It is Sansa who rules in Winterfell. Even the castle smells of her.

—-

His mother speaks with good sense and reason. Lady Catelyn is wise from years of motherhood and grief and Robb would never question her. Without her guidance, he would’ve lost the war and his head, and he knows it.

“I know you love your sister dearly,” she begins.

His stomach lurches.

“But you have a queen.” She pauses. “You have a wife.”

_My wife is not my queen._

“You spend your nights with Sansa…” She trails off. “I’ve heard whispers, Robb, about who the true queen is.”

“Whispers don’t concern us.”

“I agree,” his mother says, nodding. “It doesn’t matter. But you need an heir.”

—-

He pulls her atop him and takes her hands, twining their fingers together. He thrusts upward and his own breath catches when he hears Sansa gasp. She grinds her hips against him and he feels as though the world may very well spin off its axis.

He grabs her hips and tightens his grip until he can’t bear to hold her any tighter. They move together, a synchronized dance of passion and irrevocable indulgence.

He tries not to dwell on the thought that he can only stir up such enthusiasm for his sister.

—-

“Where is the queen?”

Robb gives Maester Harryn a puzzled look. Roslin’s absence is rarely, if ever, noted and she is never missed. Her endless pacing and restless nature mean she seldom remains in one place for very long. “Wandering the grounds, I suppose.”

The maester gives him a small smile, as though that wasn’t the answer he was looking for. “Yes, of course. Very good, Your Grace.”

He can feel his mother’s eyes weighing heavily on him as Harryn steps away. Robb looks to her and keeps his voice low. “What was that about?”

“That wasn’t the queen he was referring to,” she murmurs.

—-

She owns him, body and soul. There is no question as to who rules beside him. The Frey girl is a lover of light, and the only darkness she has ever known belongs to the shame of her last name. He should love her because she’s exactly what he needs. He needs someone who knows nothing of war and sacrifice. He needs someone he can forget about hardship with.

But he finds himself wanting someone who understands suffering. He wants to know that his pain is shared, and that he isn’t alone. He doesn’t want to bask in the sunlight; he wants someone to share in the darkness.

Sansa is his queen in everything but title.


End file.
